The First Step

June 15, 2015June 18, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I don’t believe that dreams are prophecies.

Well, now that I’ve ostracized a good number of folks, let me qualify the statement. When I say dreams, I mean the normal sort. You know–the ones we have when we lie down to sleep at night. The ones made more vivid by that extra round of extra spicy Buffalo wings you had at dinner. Or, the scary movie which was splashed across the television screen as you sat and dozed in your easy chair.

It doesn’t mean dreams aren’t meaningful. They often are. When we sleep, our minds go where they will, no longer guided and controlled by our discipline and resolve. Things we already know about ourselves, but aren’t willing to think or talk about when awake, somehow can be revealed as images in our sleep.

I usually can’t remember what I dream about.

Usually. But, not last night.

Even before I was completely asleep, in the wee hours of this morning, I lay in bed and saw myself standing on the edge. No, not the edge of a cliff, although I have seen that image in my head before, both in real life and in dreams.

The edge I stood upon was that of a circular hole in the floor beneath me. The hole was large enough for a body to fit through comfortably. Funny thing, I could look down the hole and see that it was lined with a white pipe, almost like PVC.

I could only see about ten feet down the pipe and then it curved out of sight. Even in my half-awake state, I could feel my heart racing. In my dream, I backed away from the pipe. Then, drawn by some irresistible urge, I eased forward step by terrified step to peer downward once more.

I really dislike heights. Heights without handrails, that is. Give me a good grip on a handrail and I’ll look down from the highest cliff or the highest tower you could imagine. There was no handrail here.

It was just a hole. A hole that led somewhere–I couldn’t tell you where.

I knew it was a dream. I knew it. You know how your mind works. It seems real, but you know it can’t be. And besides, you’re lying in bed with the fan blowing on you.

It’s only a dream. Jump! What could happen?

No. Wait! What’s down around that curve? You have no idea what’s down there!

What if there’s no more to it than what you can see and it drops you into a bottomless pit (I hear those are real common in dreams)? You’ll fall screaming forever. All because you jumped into a hole you knew nothing about.

I considered the issues. Really.

In my dream.

I wondered–Is this the only way I’ll ever really make the transition from restless dreams to deep sleep? I have to trust myself to this tube that goes who-knows-where without any more information. If you think about it, we do it every night.

Mr. Tolkien talks about roads that sweep you off your feet to foreign lands. Sleep can do that too. Really.

Perhaps the mystery slide is representative of a major decision which I need to make. Life goals stand ready to be grasped, if only I’ll trust myself to the unknown depths. I’ll never get there if I don’t take the plunge.

Decision time. What will I do?

I take one last downward look and–I swing my legs over the side of the bed and go downstairs to get a drink. When I return ten minutes later, the slide is no longer to be found and I sleep.

Ah, wonderful sleep.

After attending church this morning, I came home to help the Lovely Lady prepare our traditional Sunday Dinner. The feast for family and friends has come to be a high point of our week. Food, discussions–escalating to disputes and then diminishing back to agreeable differences, jokes, and lovely memory-making are the stuff these times are made of.

There is a shadow over my memory of today’s feast.

As I helped prepare the table, my brother sent me a text. I wasn’t ready to read it yet.

“He doesn’t feel like she has a lot of time left.”

He is my Dad. She is my Mom.

Tears came to my eyes without warning. Even as I write these words, they come again.

Through my tears, I see that hole from my dream again.

I’m beginning to grasp it now.

You’ve seen them before, haven’t you? Extreme water slides. Thrill seekers flock to them every summer. The drop in altitude is what they love–that quick plunge, setting them free from gravity for just a fraction of a moment, long enough to wonder if they’ll ever stop in time to avoid disaster.

They know they will. It’s been safety tested. Why, they even climbed the tower right beside the tube, exclaiming all the while about where each twist and turn will take place. Pointing to the plastic pipe right beside them soaring up into the sky above, they know just where it starts and where it will end.

They know. And they’re happy to take the plunge.

Because they know.

The red-headed lady who raised me has been climbing for a good many years now. She’s had lots of company along the way, but there is just One who has always been there. Always.

The day is coming. Soon, it seems. No one can know for sure.

I can just see Him standing there smiling, asking her if she’s ready. I don’t know if she’ll be frightened, like I was in my dream. But, I do know her answer will be in the affirmative.

She’s ready.

He’ll wrap His strong arms close around her and they’ll take the first step together. She’s never done this before.

But, He has.

And, He knows.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
(1 Timothy 1:7 ~ KJV)

I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
Jesus died for my sins to atone
In the darkness I see he’ll be waiting for me
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone
I won’t have to cross Jordan alone…
(I Won’t Have To Cross Jordan Alone ~ Thomas Ramsey ~ American songwriter)

Lather, Rinse, Repeat

June 12, 2015June 14, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 2 Comments

“How many times a day do you sweep your kitchen floor?”

The question was asked, ostensibly as a query in an informal poll, by my funny friend on her Facebook page the other day. And, by funny, I mean funny ha-ha, not funny weird. Well, maybe funny weird a little, but mostly funny ha-ha.

The question triggered a thought (again) that has been bothering me for many years. Maybe bothering isn’t the right word. I think perhaps the correct term would be frustrating. Because it certainly is. Frustrating, I mean.

Why is it that some jobs are never done? Even when you’ve done them?

Those of my readers who do housework will understand perfectly. Laundry, dishes, housecleaning, meal preparation–the list is endless. And repetitious beyond belief.

My own list, though somewhat less imposing, has the same challenge. Tasks done today must be done again tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year. It matters not. They must be done again.

And again.

The lawn needs to be mowed? Yep–I’ll have to do it again next week. Car needs to be washed? It’ll rain tomorrow and I’ll have to do it again. Time to paint the eaves? What, again? I just did that ten years ago!

The problem with life is that it’s so daily.

I want to be able to assign the quote to a certain person, but I think it has been spoken aloud so often by now that Anonymous will have to do. Still, the truth is, we all face the repetition of daily life–today, tomorrow, the day after, and the day after that.

I hate the dailies. Really. What’s the point? They’ll just have to be done again.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

We call it drudgery. Difficult work to do. Work that must be done repeatedly. Day after day.

I was amused as I searched for the definition of drudgery. I noticed a thesaurus listing which equated the word with an idiom Christians use frequently–at least in our discussions of fallen man:

By the sweat of one’s brow.

And the Creator said to His creation, “In drudgery shall you earn the food you will eat, until you return to the dust from which you came.”

Quite the depressing subject, no? Do you get the idea that I’m not just talking about all the physical, menial tasks I’ve mentioned above?

I’m not.

I want to talk for a minute (maybe a little more than that) about what I’m doing right now.

At this moment, I’m sitting in a dimly lit room with soft music playing, coffee cup at hand. No, I’m not all that comfy. The hard wood chair has a pad where it makes contact with my sitting-down parts. No place else. There is no plush rug to sink my feet into. In fact, my feet have to stay corralled under the wooden desk, sharing the already narrow space with a computer tower.

I do this most nights. I’m not playing games, not browsing the Interwebs, nor even answering correspondence from friends.

I come and sit here because I have to. For hours, almost without moving, at times.

I have to.

Writing isn’t something I fell in love with; it isn’t a path to fame and fortune. It’s not even an activity I chose to do. Well, in a way, it is.

I choose to be obedient to the assignment.

I know there are many writers who will disagree with me. I know of several who believe that every word they write is given to them from God. That’s not the gift I’ve been given.

The gift I have been given is a drive to write, a need to communicate God’s love through the printed words. The gift came from God. I have to write.

You want to know my problem with that?

The words don’t just fall from heaven onto my desk.

The nights I have plopped down in my hard wooden desk chair and had an entire essay flow like honey from my fingers, I can count on those sticky fingers.

It’s a struggle. A fight. On this emotional battlefield, I cry and I scream, all the while wondering if I’ll ever write another lucid sentence. From many of those battles, I’ve crept silently home, defeated. I lie in my bed, sleeplessly gazing at the ceiling and promising myself that in the morning I’ll break the news to the Lovely Lady that I’m finished. Washed up.

To my shame, from some of those battles, I have simply turned to my keyboard and slapped out enough letters and symbols to weave together the words which make up another empty and useless essay. My victims will read it and wonder what the crazy man was getting at this time. It’s still defeat.

The result is the same as before: no sleep, no rest in my spirit, an overwhelming sense of disappointment at my failure to achieve the purpose.

Funny. My restless night notwithstanding, the next nights nearly always find me back here. The hard chair is almost welcoming by now, the soft light calming, the beautiful music helping to keep the resolve in my soul firm and unyielding. Regardless of the defeats that have come on this battlefield, the gift demands my attendance.

Why do writers write?

You might as well ask why my friend, Ms. Barb, bakes rolls for her friends. Or, question why, in my town, Pastor Wayne builds ramps in front of the houses of the lame and the aged. Inquire about what drove my friends in Houston to adopt a child with lifelong needs, issues which will demand their attention from now until they no longer have the physical or mental strength to fulfill them.

God gives good gifts. The Teacher said it. If your child asks for food will you give him/her a rock? How much more–there can be no question–how much more then, will your Heavenly Father give good gifts to His children?

Good gifts.

There are days when it feels more like a noose around the neck.

Ask my friends in Houston. Ask Ms. Barb–okay, don’t ask her. She’ll never admit it. Still, I wonder if sometimes, just sometimes, it doesn’t take all she has inside to muster up the energy.

Night after night, I struggle with my stewardship of this gift. It’s not a word we use much, is it? Steward. The word implies servitude–the administration of things which will never completely belong to us.

It is what we are if we follow Him. Servants. Stewards.

By choice.

We give back the gift to the Giver. Only, we have taken the time and made the effort to make the gift, which was appropriate and necessary for us, priceless and beautiful for the King of all Creation.

Drudgery? Sweat of our brow? Yes, in a way. We labor at it, without doubt.

I struggle with tenses and punctuation, fight with malapropisms, wrestling the sentences into order, night after night. And still, the next morning, I await the emails from the Lovely Lady bearing the bad news. A comma placed incorrectly, fuzzy antecedents, abused hyphens–all are grist for her mill, and I get a steady diet of them.

It’s hard work.

No–these words don’t proceed straight from the mouth and heart of God. They are filtered through this bumbling and inefficient scribe. There will always be room for improvement.

In anticipation of this essay, I shared a couple of thoughts with my online friends earlier this week. It’s only drudgery if there is no purpose, I suggested to them.

I have a purpose.

So does Ms. Barb. And Pastor Wayne. And my friends in Houston. So does every single one of us who has also been given one or more of those good gifts. I suspect that includes most of those brave souls who have read thus far in this lengthy piece.

So. What happens with the gift now?

Often for a lifetime, and then again, sometimes only for a season, He gives good gifts. And, when He sees our faithfulness in using that gift, He usually gives bigger gifts.

Bigger jobs, you ask?

Yeah, they’re the same thing.

Life is so daily.

He made the days, too. Gifts as well. Seven in a week. Three hundred sixty-five of them in a year’s time.

So we’d have more chances to get better at being faithful stewards.

I’m just wondering how I’m going to find time to write all the thank-you notes for the gifts–what with washing the car, sweeping the floor, painting the trim, and…

Your talent is God’s gift to you. What you do with it is your gift back to God.
(Leo Buscaglia ~ American author/motivational speaker ~ 1924-1998)

Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.
(1 Corinthians 15:58 ~ NIV)

Whisper

June 10, 2015June 10, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I’ve been ill again. I don’t say that to evoke your sympathy. It’s not a life-threatening illness. At least, I don’t think it is. Asthmatic bronchitis is not uncommon and there are any number of effective treatments for it.

Feeling better today, I told the Lovely Lady I think I’ll live. Immediately, I remembered what the ultimate end of all mankind will be, and I added the phrase at least, until I die.

She was not amused. Of course, she needs me well, so she can get back to her regular work schedule of only sixty hours a week. I have left her in the lurch. She’s not amused–I’m not happy.

I’m going to admit something I may regret later. While I understand that my illness is quite treatable and am even now waiting for medication to effect its curative function, I confess that I get a little discouraged (and maybe a little angry) while I’m waiting.

In the dark and by myself, I feel helpless. You see, I’ve prayed that I’ll be free from this particular thorn in the flesh on numerous occasions over the years, but still it knocks me down periodically.

I wonder why God doesn’t hear me.

Where are you God?

I would have shouted the words, had I the breath to do so today, but satisfied myself with whimpering them plaintively toward the ceiling in the den.

There was no answer.

He’s not here, is He?

I asked myself the question and then shuddered at the implications.

Pushing up from my recliner, I went up the steps to the dining room. The result was the same there. Nothing. Living Room–Kitchen? Still nothing.

It’s a beautiful home, even if it is small. Surely, God would want to live in such an attractive abode. But, I’m pretty sure I never heard Him answer from the walls of any of those rooms.

I went back to my chair and flopped down, gasping a little.

Disappointed, I sat for a moment. Only a moment. It seemed to be just a little brighter in the room as I considered the glimmer of truth which was gradually coming to my consciousness.

Not too many years ago I went to an event, described as a house blessing, for some close friends. Their denomination allows for such things, reading scripture, then blessing each room in turn, before calling for God’s presence in the home. I expected to feel different when I left. I didn’t.

I remember thinking that’s not how it works.

I also remember some friends on the other end of the spectrum of faith who had someone come in and do a service to cast out the evil spirits from their home. The assumption was, again, that God would come and fill that space, recently vacated by the bad things.

I wasn’t there. I’m not going to get into an argument about exorcism, nor even about blessing houses.

I just know what is truth. Straight from Him.

Truth.

God doesn’t live in buildings. Why would he want to inhabit dead, inanimate things made of brick, and wood, and steel?

Ah. Now you know what that glimmer bursting into flame earlier was, don’t you?

God lives in His people. Weak–strong. Old–young. Women–men.

Inside this weak, sick man, gasping for breath on a warm, summer day, the Creator has taken up His abode.

Inside the old man down the street from me, overtaken by blindness, God sees clearly exactly what he needs.

In the soul of my friend, awaiting word from her oncologist giving her the bad/good news about the result of her latest PET scan, He is not surprised nor panicked. He sees all paths and knows all ends.

And, He lives inside of us.

Do you think He doesn’t feel the despair?

Do you assume He doesn’t understand my anger?

Do you suppose He doesn’t hear the frightened petitions?

Would you imagine He is unmoved by our cries?

He lives in us!

So. I’m done yelling at the ceiling.

Now, I begin to understand that song we used to sing when we were children. Maybe it’s time to whisper our prayers to Him again.

Just a whisper.

Inside voice will work just fine.

Give me yourself and in exchange I will give you Myself. My will, shall become your will. My heart, shall become your heart.
(from Mere Christianity ~ C.S. Lewis ~ Irish born teacher/author ~ 1898-1963)

Whisper a prayer in the morning.
Whisper a prayer at noon.
Whisper a prayer in the evening,
To keep your heart in tune.
(Anonymous)

Yet the Most High does not dwell in houses made by hands…
(Acts 7:48a ~ ESV)

What a Moment!

June 5, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’ve never felt a more moving moment in my life.”

The man in front of me is not given to dramatics, but is a down-to-earth fellow, just taking a break from his 9 to 5 retail job. Our conversation has run the gamut from a discussion of the merit of microphone stand designs to his dismal weekend of moonlighting as a Karaoke DJ. Somehow the conversation moves to a recent trip he took to New Orleans, where the emotional experience mentioned above occurred.

As he speaks, his countenance softens and his voice, once loud and boisterous, lowers in timbre and volume. He describes an early stroll through the streets of New Orleans, just before daybreak one chilly morning.

His steps took him through Jackson Square, past the statue of General (and later President) Andrew Jackson and up the steps of the Moon Walk to stand near the mighty Mississippi River. He stood, looking almost due east and welcoming the first rays of light from the rising sun, and realized he wasn’t alone.

Glancing behind him, he saw an elderly gentleman, wearing a hat and a long coat. As the man, probably about seventy years old, approached, he stood for a moment looking at the rolling water and the sun’s rays reflecting gently off the shimmering surface. Then, rubbing his hands together, the old fellow doffed his hat and dropped it onto the sidewalk in front of him and from somewhere under his coat, produced an ancient brass trumpet and put it to his lips.

As the sweet notes started from the horn, my friend recognized the opening passage of an old patriotic favorite, America, the Beautiful, perhaps better known to many as Oh Beautiful, For Spacious Skies. He reports that the old fellow never missed a note, never searched for the next tone, but played through the tune with many a flourish and grace note, flawlessly.

I listen to him tell of removing his cap and standing by the river’s edge with tears flowing down his face while the sun begins to rise full and bright above the water’s surface and the old musician plays on, and I too feel the tears start to well up. The beauty of the moment is enough to move even me as I view the scene through his misty eyes.

It is a moment to savor.

I have become a collector of moments. If you’ve stuck with me for long, you already know that. Most of the articles I post are remembrances of such moments. I don’t want to lose them in the fog and mist of age, when memories dim and existence is limited to meals, and personal needs, and waiting.

I collected another moment recently. I had heard the momentous event called the Transit of Venus was occurring, and had shrugged mentally, giving the obscure phenomenon only a peremptory nod with a joke posted on my favorite social network, and then retreated to real life once again. I couldn’t help but notice though, late in the afternoon, that a fellow had pulled into the parking lot across from the music store and was setting up some sort of optical equipment.

Some time later, a phone call from a friend suggesting that I walk across the street to see what was going on was met with another verbal shrug.

Big deal. A spot on the sun.

Then I remembered. This event would happen once in my lifetime. The next time it occurs will be in another one hundred and five years. I don’t intend to be here still. I made the walk.

That was an eye-opening experience! The gentleman with the telescope was happy, almost eager, to give me a view in the lens of his expensive equipment. I inquired about eye protection, but he assured me that it was safe. A filter was in place and would block out any dangerous light.

The view was breathtaking.

I had never in my life looked at the sun through a telescope, much less even imagined the sight of the tiny (when put in this perspective) planet Venus as it crossed between the Earth and the Sun. A tiny, but distinct dot was really all that appeared of the planet, and my brain went into overload as I contemplated the immensity of the celestial body that provides us with warmth and light.

My thought immediately shifted to the realization that, if Venus is roughly the same size as the Earth, it follows that Venus’s comparison to the Sun is also the Earth’s. The next natural step was to realize how small I am in comparison to the immensity of the Earth. Right about then, this little speck on a speck started feeling mighty small in the grand scheme of things.

It was definitely a moment.

Still feeling small, I once again crossed the street to enter the front door of the music store. As I entered the building, a young voice called out, “Hi Grandpa!” One by one, other voices chimed in as they vied for my attention. It was only for a short period of time, but suddenly, I felt huge. I was important in their world!

There is nothing like the love of a child to put thoughts that have been skewed back into perspective.

Again, a moment to be collected and savored.

Certainly, the huge Sun still hung overhead; the tiny, yet immense, planet Venus continued its transit across the sky between Earth and that great ball of flaming gas. But here, in my world, we were all life-sized, living and loving, making a difference in the moments that matter to each of us. Memories are being made and these moments will be gathered into the collection.

Like all collectors, I continue to enjoy taking out the accumulation of moments, both moving and eye-opening, joyful and heart-breaking. The collection of a lifetime is all of these and more, ever growing and changing.

Thankfully, even in the midst of collecting thoughts of immensity and insignificance, I find again, in my collection, that moment of realization that One, who cares for every single part of His creation, loves this small, insignificant man. And once again, I feel humbled and important at the same time.

What a moment that was!

What’s in your collection? There will be many more moments today, even.

There is still plenty of time to gather a memory or two. Maybe you could even share one with a friend like me.

I promise, I’ll try not to cry when you do…

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.
(To the Virgins, To Make Much of Time~Robert Herrick~English poet~1591-1674)

Indeed the right time is now. Today is the day of salvation!
(2 Corinthians 6:2b~NLT)

No Goodbyes

June 4, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

“I’m about done here. Gave my notice this week.”

My jazz-playing friend slipped the momentous news in between the discussion of his guitar amplifier’s deficiencies and a question about some sheet music.

I almost missed it.

“Let me check on that title and we’ll get it printed for… Wait! What?”

Ten years I’ve known the man. Ten years ago, he was temporarily relocated here with dozens of folks when Hurricane Katrina hit his little city in southern Louisiana. After a few months, most of the others went back home to New Orleans. He decided to stay.

Now, Atlanta calls. People like jazz there. Enough to pay a living wage to the musicians who love playing it.

He is leaving. By the end of the month. For good.

I didn’t take the news well. He wants me to be happy for him. I am.

It’s me I’m sad for.

I hate goodbye.

Funny. I knew his stay here was temporary from the start. We were always going to say goodbye.

Someday.

Just not today. Or this week. Or even this month.

It’s easy to get carried away by the weight of a word. This one just has so much packed into it.

Goodbye.

Goodbye is what we say when fathers and brothers (and not a few mothers and sisters) go off to war, many never to return. Goodbye is what we breathe as we watch the over-packed car pull out of the driveway with our child on his or her way to college. Goodbye is what we sob when the casket is closed on the face of someone we loved more than anyone else in this world.

Goodbye.

As a child, I once thought if I didn’t actually say the word goodbye, the separation wouldn’t happen. Voila! Problem solved!

Except, it didn’t work.

I missed the departure of my grandparents one Fall day when I tested my theory. Knowing it was the morning they would pull out dragging their gleaming, space-age Airstream trailer behind the old 1965 Pontiac Catalina, I simply went out to the field and hid.

Funny. Goodbye happens whether we say the word, or not. They were gone, and I missed it. I missed them.

Goodbye happens. We’re only here temporarily. Every one of us. One day, I’ll say my final goodbye, too.

That’s odd.

Final goodbye. The last one. For all of eternity.

If, like me, you believe there is more–and I’m sure there is–you’ll understand the impact of that statement.

Not one more goodbye. Not one.

All tears wiped away. No more death. No mourning, no crying, no pain.

But, not every person we know will be there. Unlike the pap being fed to this world by the deceiver, there is no hope that anyone could ever experience it without the grace our Savior purchased as He died for us. The free gift is offered, but it must be accepted.

I sometimes wonder if we’ll miss those who have chosen to follow a different path, rejecting the grace of a God who hates goodbyes just as much as we do. Perhaps those will be the tears–the last ones shed–He will wipe away from our eyes.

What a day! What a reunion. And what a multitude of hellos.

My friend is still leaving this month. I am still sad.

I hate goodbye.

…but if you have been – if you’ve been up all night and cried till you have no more tears left in you – you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing is ever going to happen again.
(from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe ~ C.S. Lewis ~ English author ~ 1898-1963)

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.
(Revelation 21:4 ~ ESV)

Got an extra 3 minutes? You could do worse than to spend them listening to Selah’s version of God Be With You. Beautiful song with powerful imagery!

http://https://youtu.be/1fqu1ee5QNM

Eye Opening

June 2, 2015June 2, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

Brother 1: “What did the man say when the clock struck thirteen?”
Brother 2: “I don’t know. What did he say?”
Brother 1: “‘I’ve got to get up! It’s later than it’s ever been before!'”

I sat this evening in my easy chair. Ah, sweet peace!

Leaning the recliner back toward the wall, my eyes closed of their own accord, just like one of those dolls with the weighted eyelids. My busy day had gotten the best of me and a nap seemed appropriate. Okay–at that moment appropriate had nothing to do with it. I fell asleep without even thinking about the implications at all.

We have four striking clocks in the house, all of which are audible from that easy chair. I’ve never been able to synchronize them to strike at the same time.

The sound as they announce the hour, one after another and intermingled with each other, is enough to wake the dead.

Perhaps that’s a bad metaphor, but it’ll do for this situation.

If lying down was reminiscent of the action of those doll’s eyes, waking was that also. In reverse. As I jerked up from my reclining position, the clocks tolling the hour, my eyes flew open.

I had things to do! What was I doing, sleeping away the evening?

It’s late! I’ve got to get busy!

The clocks didn’t strike thirteen, although a stranger in the house might be excused for thinking it was more times than that. The cacophony when they all get in on the act is a little unsettling.

You know, the man with the defective clock was right.

It is later than it’s ever been.

If that seems a Captain Obvious type statement, I apologize. For some reason, I’m always the last one to become aware of the conspicuous facts.

You see, I’ve never been fifty-eight before, an age I’ll attain later this month. I’ve never been married for thirty-six years before. It’s never been 2015 before.

It’s later than it’s ever been.

Oh, I’ve heard the warnings. All about us, people are shouting that the sky is falling. They are scurrying about blaming others, buying guns, and storing up emergency rations to be sure they survive the disasters, both natural and man-made, which are coming.

I will admit to my ignorance.

I will also admit to my lack of interest.

Please don’t misunderstand. I don’t deny that there is change coming–perhaps soon. I just don’t believe that it makes one iota of difference in our mission. And what I see from many who believe the change is upon us is anger, and confusion, and selfishness.

But, the One we follow–those of us who claim to be Christians–the One we follow has given us our instructions long ago.

Love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, that a man lay down his life for another.

And, just in case we misunderstood and thought that it was only those who believe as we do whom we are called to love, God reminded us that it was while we were still His enemies that His Son came for us. To die.

Not friends. Enemies.

The cacophony of the voices I hear raised in cursing–yes, cursing–at the world (and those raised in return) is not unlike the clanging of those clocks, reminding us that it is late.

Not too late, I hope. Later than it’s ever been, without doubt, but not too late.

Are you frightened? Upset by recent events? Disappointed with people and situations? Me, too. It gives us no excuse. None of us.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or next week, or next year, for that matter. The government and the courts may turn on us. Our accustomed way of life may vanish from the face of the earth. It changes nothing.

Nothing.

We love. Perhaps enough to die, but we love.

Because He first loved us.

It’s later than it’s ever been.

My eyes are open now.

Yours?

This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters.
(1 John 3:16 ~ NIV)

Q: What time is it when the clock strikes thirteen?
A: Time to get a new clock!

Essentials

May 27, 2015May 27, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

The thunder reverberates in waves outside. Again.

I have been here before.

Usually, the sound gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside and I smile and breathe a prayer of thanks to the Creator.

It is, after all, Springtime in the foothills of the Ozarks, and time for the thunderstorms and the rain that replenish the many rivers and lakes. The farmers count on the rainfall for a good year, some needing plentiful hay crops for livestock, while others await the yield of fruit on trees and vines, come Fall.

Rain is essential to all life.

There is no smile on my face tonight. The prayers I’m breathing to the Creator are for relief from the torrential downpours which have caused incredible hardship for many and even loss of life for some. The floods have carried away people and property alike. To some, it must appear that rain is to be hated, an evil thing intent on their destruction.

Rain is essential to all life.

It’s still true, isn’t it?

He makes the rain to fall on the just and the unjust equally. He sends the rain to fulfill His purpose and it will not return to the heavens without accomplishing what it was sent out for. Rain waters the earth, and the earth give forth its harvest. Again and again. One season follows another, the cycle uninterrupted.

Still, I’m not smiling. I don’t even know what to say in my prayers now.

I agree that we require rain for life. I dare not ask for the cycle to be broken. And yet. . .

My friend and his family spent last night in one end of his home, waiting for the old oak trees to topple onto the roof at the other end. Two had already fallen and crushed cars in the driveway and these were leaning, their roots pulling loose from the wet soil.

Others I know have spent dark, damp nights waiting for the break of day to see where the water line is on their walls and furniture. Still others have prayed and cried as the waters rose and then receded.

Their homes were untouched, but not their spirits.

And suddenly I know how to pray.

Why do we focus on the physical, when God clearly places a premium on our spiritual well being? Are we really that short sighted?

“Please God, take this away from me! I don’t want to suffer.”

It’s the prayer I have prayed again and again. The same prayer I have heard from loved ones.

I’m still not smiling. I am filled with hope, though.

I will sit, here in the comfort and safety (for now) of my home, and pray for the protection of the spirits and souls of my friends and all those affected by the disasters they are suffering.

God has not promised ease and comfort, nor has He guaranteed physical immunity from disaster. What He has vowed is that the uncomfortable and dangerous times will not touch the real us–the center of our being which is of infinite value to Him.

When you walk through the floods, they will not overwhelm you! When you walk through the flame, you won’t be burned. Have no fear; I have redeemed you; I have called you by name. You are mine!

Is the physical suffering real? Does He care about that? Yes and yes! But, He cares so much more about who we are beyond the physical and the temporal.

He intends to spend eternity with us! How would He not keep us from harm?

It doesn’t mean I’m about to start smiling yet. People I know are still frightened and sad. He made us to care about that. But, deep down, I know that God’s got this.

He’s got this!

The waters will recede. The trees will be cut up to use as firewood next winter. Life goes on.

The cycle is unbroken.

Here comes the rain again.

God is good.

“When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don’t throw away the ticket and jump off. You sit still and trust the engineer.”
(Corrie Ten Boom ~ Dutch author/Nazi Holocaust survivor ~ 1892-1983)

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.
(Isaiah 43:2 ~ ESV)

Light the Match!

May 26, 2015May 26, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

What a day!

It had been a beautiful time–the stuff of dreams for the skinny boy. Twelve years old, he was on his first real camp out. The two-hour ride to the lake in the back of the old pickup truck wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it might sound. Besides, Mr. Bell had the foresight to find a place about halfway to the campsite where the group of Junior High boys could play a game of basketball in an old dilapidated gymnasium.

When they reached the lake, the tattered old tent was erected quickly as all of the eight or so boys and their two leaders pitched in. The tent had seen a lot of these trips over the years Mr. Bell had given his time for groups just like these boys. They didn’t care. It looked perfect to them.

That job complete, they grabbed their cheap Zebco spinning rods and reels from the floor of the truck and headed down to the lake to see what they could catch for supper.

The skinny kid chewed on the stem of a match as he cast his hook out again. All he had snagged so far was a tiny bream or two, and he wasn’t about to keep them. The rest of the boys had about the same luck, but still, there were a couple of perch caught worth keeping.

They weren’t worried about starving. The cooler packed with hot dogs was back at camp, along with the makings for S’mores. Even the boys who couldn’t stand the taste of fish were assured of having a decent meal. There were a couple dozen eggs in the cooler, too. Breakfast would come, in time.

“Time to head back up to camp, boys!” The big voice from Mr Bell, himself a big man, echoed across the lake.

From all along the shore, the boys groaned, but they dutifully wound up their lines and headed for the tent and a hot meal. Before that could happen, there was a fire to be built and even a couple of fish to be cleaned.

The skinny kid wearing the horn-rimmed glasses knew how to clean fish, so he volunteered to help while the others gathered kindling and firewood. Scraping scales and removing the unneeded parts of the perch would be messy work, so he took the match from between his teeth and dropped it into his pocket. It would be safe there.

He finished his part of the job before the others began returning with the makings for the fire, so he headed up the trail toward the restrooms. Not that the boy was all that fastidious, but fishy hands needed to be washed. Even he couldn’t eat with hands covered with scales and. . . Well, you get the picture.

He approached the little wooden structure and, finding a young bat with its wings spread clinging to one of the window screens, spent a few minutes trying to coax it into flight with a long sprig from a nearby mesquite tree. It wouldn’t budge, so finally he just found the water faucet and washed up in the cold water.

Clean again and drying his hands on his tee shirt, he headed back down, realizing as he did that the wind off the lake had picked up quite a bit. It was unusual for the month of June, causing him to shiver a little as he felt the cool gusts in his face.

No matter. The fire would be going soon. They would be warm enough.

The boy arrived at the campsite just in time to hear Mr. Bell ask the question.

“Well, now what do we do? Does anybody else have matches?”

The situation was immediately clear to the lad. Someone had forgotten to check the match supply. When the box was opened, only three of the sulphur and pine fire-starters were to be found.

“No problem,” Mr. Bell had said. “It only takes one.”

He had lit the match and then shoved it down toward the newspaper wadded among the kindling. The wind snuffed it out on the way down. The second followed, with the same result.

Carefully shielding the third and last match in his hand and keeping it right next to the paper, he managed to get the flaring flame to light the edge. Still shielding the blazing kindling, he waited a moment before backing away. A gust of wind puffed the flame out in that instant.

“Anybody?” The big voice was almost plaintive as Mr. Bell repeated the word. “A match?”

The skinny boy clamped his mouth shut. He said not one word about the match in his pocket. Not a word.

Two things kept him quiet. The first thing was a little silly. But, not to him, it wasn’t.

The match was his. His. And, nobody else’s.

What’s that? Selfish, was it? Sure. But, he wasn’t wrong. It was his. Besides that, the second thing wasn’t silly at all. Well, maybe a little silly, but again, not to him.

He needed that match. In case.

In case what?

Duh! If he was starving, he could light a fire to cook something. If he was freezing, he could get warm. If he was lost in the wilderness, he could build a signal fire to attract attention.

His. His last match.

If they used that match and it blew out, all hope would be gone. No chance of a fire over which to cook, nor to be warmed by. As long as it remained unlit, he had hope.

No fire, but hope.

They ate cold hotdogs and chocolate bars with whole marshmallows that night. There were no fried eggs for breakfast the next morning either. Bread and apples slices. That was what the shivering boys ate before they broke camp to head back home.

The skinny kid kept the match in his pocket all the way home.

Silly, huh? Dumb twelve-year-old kid.

What adult would think like that? Why would anyone keep quiet about a treasure they had hidden which could be of value to others?

What good is hope if a person never bothers to put it to the test?

When I write, there is usually no dearth of words to make my point. The narrative complete, I always have a moral to offer. Tonight should be no different.

But, I don’t want to fill the page with more words.

You see, the twelve-year old kid still lives in me.

Maybe, it’s time to light the match and see what happens.

“But whoever has the world’s goods, and sees his brother in need and closes his heart against him, how does the love of God abide in him?”
(I John 3:17 ~ NASB)

“One who cannot cast away a treasure at need is in fetters.”
(from The Two Towers ~ J.R.R.Tolkien ~ English author/poet ~ 1892-1973)

Good Things

May 21, 2015May 22, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.
(Lord Byron)

Thousands? Millions? Hardly that, for all the words I will slather on this page like so much honey onto a slice of bread, but perhaps some will think anyway. A few.

I left her a few moments ago, sitting in her customary place under the lamp, patiently placing stitch after stitch of thread into the canvas on her lap. She looked into my face just before I turned away. What the Lovely Lady saw there, I don’t know, but she interpreted my emotions in that split second.

“Don’t be depressed.” The words came out more as a supplication for a favor than a demand.

She knows me.

My work day was a little tumultuous, emotionally. More than a little.

The day started with a visit from a young man with whom I’ve been acquainted for a number of years. I knew him when he was a middle-schooler, still in his early teens.

I still picture him–No, not just a picture, but a video–in my head, sitting on a stool over in the corner. There is an acoustic guitar in his hand, and he is singing. Clear and pure, the melody flows from his mouth, his vocal chords producing tones I could never dream of making myself. The ordinary guitar in his hands has become an instrument of magic, the chords and arpeggios flowing effortlessly to blend with the sonorous vocals of the song.

I have listened to hundreds, perhaps thousands, of individuals, both young and old, as they sit and play in my store. For almost forty years, they’ve come through. Many are just beginners, the chords they play halting and timid, the strumming patterns almost not patterns at all. Some, more experienced, are quite good, their playing pleasant to hear, the vocals (when they come) adequate. There are even a few who are accomplished musicians, confident in their skill, and comfortable with the few customers who make up their audience.

This young man though–I have never seen a more natural performer, nor listened to more raw talent. Never. He played flawlessly, his fingers flashing over the strings. And, when he sang? Ah, when he sang, he was in a world all his own, oblivious to anyone else in the room. From a beautiful broad baritone range, up to the powerful high tenor voice, and then on into a beautiful clear falsetto, he sang without fear and without imperfection.

I remember thinking, this one–this one is going to go places and do amazing things with his gifts. I had no doubts success would be his.

It was inevitable.

It was not.

I’m not sure where the young man’s experiences have taken him in the ten years since I first heard him, but those years have not been friendly to him. Gone is the genial, confident boy I knew. Gone too, is a large part of his raw talent, sacrificed on the altar of drugs.

I will not dwell on the sadness in my heart; it will come through on its own. As I looked into the chemical-clouded eyes of my young friend, I saw no sign of recognition, no smile of joy as in days past. His voice was flat and emotionless, his responses to my questions slow, sometimes not coming at all. Drug usage is a thief, stealing abilities and ambitions, leaving in their place detachment and resignation.

Don’t be depressed? Why should I not?

How could I not?

I said it was a tumultuous day, didn’t I? Tumultuous describes both highs and lows, a heady mixture of good and bad. Today was such a day.

As the workday drew to a close, another friend came in. A transplant from New Orleans, this middle-aged fellow has made his home in our small town for almost ten years now. A little hurricane named Katrina blew him our way and he decided to stay.

An avid jazz lover, he hasn’t always found fellow musicians to play with, since this part of the country is not exactly a hotbed of jazz music. Still, he slogs along, guitar in hand, making disciples where he can.

This afternoon, he and I were deep in conversation when another young man walked in. The young college graduate picked up a guitar and strummed a chord or two. Well-trained in a number of styles of music, he has developed a love for jazz recently. Talk about a coincidence!

The two men had met before, and they greeted each other as the older jazz lover from New Orleans seated himself on a stool near the younger man. Now both of them were holding guitars.

They had just begun to play together, when still another young friend pushed the door open. This fellow also has extensive training in various styles of music, having a few years of studio recording and touring with a popular Christian group under his belt.

Before I knew it, they were all holding guitars and playing, with some skill, the jazz chord progressions the older man called out to start with. A moment later, you might have thought they had played together for years, the sound was so smooth and clean. It wasn’t flawless, but it was good.

I left them to enjoy each other and the music, and I sat down at my desk.

Disappointment had been my companion from the start of the day. I wanted to hold that tight and wallow in the feeling. My sadness at the waste of such talent was palpable. The ten-year old video in my head was still playing, the once joyful vocals and accompaniment now solemn and tragic.

But, the music from around the corner intruded. Yes. That’s the word. It intruded, driving out the dark, lighting the place with hope. Joy, even.

A voice took up a melody–an old tune from the classic age of jazz. Oh the shark has–pretty teeth dear, and he shows them–pearly white. . .

I have a new video to play in my brain now. Mack the Knife is sitting ready to play and replay again when I need a good memory. Two young men, sitting beside their new friend, a street-singer from New Orleans, are playing along in fine form. His old voice, rough and soft all at once, is belting out the lyrics as he swipes at the strings of the old acoustic guitar.

This moment is one to add to my collection.

A tumultuous day. Just as it started with disappointment, so it ended with joy and satisfaction.

And, what of my disappointment? What of the wasted young man? Is that nothing? Is he nothing?

The answer is clear. I am still sad. And deeply concerned. I will do everything that is in my power to help him. But I cannot stay there.

I will speak of the sad and the unseemly. I will speak of it, but I won’t dwell there.

I will dwell on the beautiful and the good. There is, it seems, still a good bit of those left in this wide world which our Creator has given us to sojourn in. And, we are still just passing through it. Passing through on our way to a place where the beautiful and the good are all which will be seen and experienced.

So, Lord Byron, these words in figurative ink have fallen onto my thoughts, here in the middle of the night.

Let us see if perhaps, just perhaps, a small percentage of your thousands, or millions can be induced to think.

And now, dear brothers and sisters, one final thing. Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right, and pure, and lovely, and admirable. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.
(Philippians 4:8 ~ NLT)

Buffing Nails

May 20, 2015May 20, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

It happens every week day, usually more than once. The Lovely Lady answers the phone at our business, only to hear the voice on the other end of the line ask for me. As often as not, she has to tell them that I am not available to talk, but she can help.

She can.

Still, it gives a little boost to my self-esteem to know people all over the country are asking for me by name. They’re even disappointed when I don’t have time to talk with them.

Clearly, it would be nicer if they wanted to speak with me because I am well-known or even the keeper of some secret knowledge. If I were a world famous author with umpteen best sellers to my credit, then I could really feel proud to have them call for me.

I wish you could see me now. I’m sitting at my desk, breathing on my fingernails, then rubbing them on my shirt in the region of my left shoulder. It’s a gesture I haven’t seen for many years, but I remember it well.

I think the once popular rap artist MC Hammer would say it this way: Can’t Touch This! Maybe you remember it as hot stuff. In my childhood, we just said the words easy as pie, to indicate that it was nothing for us, but anyone else who tried was likely to fail.

So I sit here, feeling superior and polishing my nails, as I think about the lady from Brooklyn who needs my personal attention, the fellow from Dallas who can’t make a decision without me, and the senior citizen from San Jose who is lost without my guidance.

Then I remember. Again.

When the Lovely Lady says the words, “He’s busy; may I help you?” not one of them insists on waiting or calling back. Not one.

You’ve heard the words before, haven’t you? No one is indispensable.

I can be replaced.

I stop my nail polishing and think about that for awhile. It’s a sobering thought, isn’t it?

And then, there’s that other thing. You know, the fact they’re only calling to order something which we’ll mail to them. They’re not asking me to make a decision about whether it’s time to bomb our enemies out of existence. No one is wondering if I know the best way to cure the common cold.

So, it’s not only that I can be replaced. The plain fact is, what my fans want to talk about is not really all that important in the grand scheme of life.

I stick my hands in my pockets this time.

What’s the point, anyway?

Perhaps, as the Preacher said, all is meaningless, simply vanity upon vanity.

Ah, but I don’t believe that. With my hands in my pockets, leaning back in the old oak desk chair, a picture comes to mind. It is from a story I’ve never really cared for, mostly because it was not real, but a contrivance. I always like real-life stories to illustrate real life.

For now though, the exception:

The boy walked along the sea shore, bending down again and again to pick up something and throw it into the water. The jaded businessman, walking along the beach behind him, finally caught up with the boy and asked him what he was doing. Opening his arms up wide to indicate the stranded starfish lying on the beach, the boy let the man know he was helping to save their lives.

The man looked around them and saw hundreds, perhaps thousands, of the starfish lying on the sandy shore. Laughing at the boy, the rude fellow made it clear he believed him foolish, telling him he couldn’t make a difference to all of them. Many would die.

Picking up one more of the strange creatures from the wet sand, the boy tossed it out into the surf and blurted out obstinately, “I made a difference to that one.”

The story is a contrivance–yes. It was made up to prove a point.

I get the point.

So–what I do isn’t going to save humanity. It doesn’t matter.

Tomorrow, I’ll pick up the phone and, remembering to smile, I’ll ask the person on the other end of the line if I can help them. It’s what I do.

I’ll make a difference for that one person.

And, the next time the phone rings, and the next time, and still the time after that, I’ll remember to smile and I’ll do what I can to help.

Every person who reads this has a purpose for their existence. Some will be more important than I can imagine; others will perform a menial, seemingly insignificant, task day after day–a task that must be done. And each one will make a difference.

Without exception, each one will impact the life or lives of others around them.

I do matter! Sure, I can be replaced. And yet, my Creator placed me in just this place and time to make an impact on the world around me.

While I’m here, I’m going to work to make a difference.

Before, I said I was proud my customers know me and ask for me by name. That’s nothing. God knew my name long before any of them did. He calls me by name and wants me to walk with Him.

I’m pulling my hands out of my pockets again.

Can’t you see me? With the palm of my right hand facing me, I’m puffing gently on my folded over fingertips, putting a little condensation on the fingernails. Time now to buff them with the cotton material of my shirt front.

Ah. You’re doing it too, aren’t you? It’s a good thing. He knows your name, as well.

The Preacher did say one thing I agree with: Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your strength.

If God puts the work in front of us, it’s a sure bet that blessings will be ours as we accomplish that work.

We got this!

Easy as pie!

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine.”
(Isaiah 43:1 ~ ESV)

“Not all of us can do great things. But we can do little things with great love.”
(Mother Teresa ~ Roman Catholic missionary ~ 1910-1997)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips